"Your dad isn't a firearms enthusiast, is he?"
"No, but he's got a chainsaw in the shed. And any amount of other power tools." All in pristine condition, because he never actually used the things.
"The Winchester Driller Killer … nah, I can't see it, can you?"
"The Hampshire Chainsaw Massacre hasn't quite got the same ring, either," I mused. "Do you think this shirt's all right?"
Matt frowned. "I'm not sure anyone's going to care about your clothes, to be honest. I think they're going to be more worried about what you're saying."
He was probably right. I doubted there was an ideal outfit to come out to your parents in.
"You know you don't have to do this, right?" Matt asked one more time.
"Yes, I do. I'm not hiding you." I twisted around to slide my hands round his waist. "And anyway, it's probably as good a time as any. What with the fight and everything. Isn't that what politicians do-try and bury bad news with worse news?"
"Depends what they think is the worse news," Matt said dubiously.
"Good point. All right, wish me luck-I'm going in."
***
The drive up to Winchester took half an hour, most of which I spent biting my nails and hoping against hope for a sudden flash traffic jam that'd mean I could put the whole thing off for a bit longer. Needless to say, the roads were clearer than I'd ever seen them.
When I got to Mum and Dad's Victorian semi, I parked at the end of the drive and sat there for a moment, taking some deep, supposedly calming breaths. I could do this. I was twenty-eight, for God's sake, not some confused, hormonal teenager. This was the twenty-first century. Everyone knew someone who was gay. It was no big deal anymore.
Yes, right. Tell that to my pounding heart and sweaty palms. I got out of the car, strode swiftly to the door before I could change my mind, and rang the bell.
And waited.
And waited some more. Where the hell was everyone? I could forgive Jay for not jumping up to answer the door, but surely they wouldn't have left him on his own? After all, since he'd retired, Dad hardly even went out anymore-just spent all his time reading the paper or in the garden …
Ah. The garden. It was a bright, sunny afternoon in late June, and Mum had some rather fixed ideas about the health benefits of fresh air. Where else would they be? Huffing a bit at them anyway for making this all even more nerve-racking than it had to be, I trooped around the side of the house.
They were all sitting on the patio, Mum and Dad on their twee little wrought-iron chairs and Jay stretched out on what looked like a brand-new lounger, the Meccano set glinting in the sun. They were sipping PG Tips and nibbling on slices of Mr. Kipling's Battenburg, and the only one missing from the set was Olivia. Birds were twittering, flowers were blooming, somewhere in the distance a neighbour's lawnmower buzzed-the whole scene was idyllically peaceful. Until I stepped into view.
Mum put down her cup of tea the minute she saw me. "Timothy! Now, what's all this nonsense Kate was saying about you being arrested?"
Oh, God. Facing a crazed, violently jealous Steve Pritchard was as nothing to the thought of explaining myself to my mother. "I got in a fight, Mum."
She frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. Why on earth would you do that? You never get into fights. Your father and I have always worried you'd never toughen up and stand up for yourself."
I winced at the implication they were still worrying about it and glanced at Dad. He shrugged and made a face that managed to encompass sorry, well, a father worries about his son and you know what your mother's like all in one.
"Well, this time I did," I said, hopefully not sounding too defensive.
"I hope this isn't just some silly reaction to losing your job, where you've decided you need to prove yourself-"
"Mum! He started it!" Great. Now I sounded all of six years old. "I mean, we had a bit of a barney-" Mum gave me a sharp look, as well she might. Up until now, the word "barney" as used by me had been merely a generic term for Fred Flintstone's best mate. It seemed Matt was rubbing off on me in more ways than one-and that little image was not what I needed to focus on while I was trying to talk to my mother. "A bit of an argument. And then he just went for me."
"But why would he do that? What were you arguing about? Timothy?"
My throat almost closed up at the thought of telling them. "It was about this bloke … " I swallowed. "Mum, Dad-I've got a boyfriend." I wiped my hands on my jeans, then wondered what on earth I was supposed to do with them now. If I put them in my pockets, I'd come over all sullen adolescent. Folding my arms would look confrontational. Putting them behind my back …